


Highland Games

by fabricdragon



Series: Smooth Criminal [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Its my husbands fault, Male Bonding, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Sexism, Scotland, Suit Porn, Tailoring, abuse of tailoring, but cute, past history, sexist assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8975287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: James Bond, meet Sean Connery.  Sean, meet James.  Now everyone stand back.this is my husbands fault.Takes place EARLY in OO7's career as a double O, WELL before events  in Smooth Criminal. In fact, before Vesper.





	1. They are dangerous you know…

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whouseknecht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whouseknecht/gifts).



Bond was called in to M’s office.

“New assignment, Bond,” she said, not looking up. “You’ll hate it.”

Bond’s stomach sank. “So why me then? I did well on my last job.”

“You destroyed a great deal of the landscape, Bond, which I do not believe was in the mission briefs.”

“It… wasn’t NOT in them?”  He flashed M his best and most endearing smile. “Besides, you weren’t upset‑“

“Furious,” she said, finally looking up. 

Bond noted the twitch of one eye: incipient headache…  “Oh. Politics?”

“Politics,” she sighed. “We need a good looking agent‑stop PREENING, Bond‑ who has high-level clothing.”

Bond’s smirk turned into a broad grin. ”And I’m the only Double-O who actually has a Savile Row tailor.”

M pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re insufferable.”

“But I’m still your favorite.”

“You will be providing extra protection to the Queen and her entourage.”

“What?” Bond was horribly confused. “Why? They have the best.”

M’s shoulders sagged, slightly. “Apparently the security detail is… reduced.”  She frowned. “Which reminds me…” She flipped on her speaker. “Tanner!”

“Yes, M?”

“NO potlucks without security checks.”

“Already done, Ma’am.”

She flicked the switch off.

“Potlucks?” Bond racked his brains, but couldn’t come up with a code that matched. “I don’t know that one.”

“Potluck, where everyone brings a covered dish? Surely even you are familiar?” She looked at Bond’s utterly perplexed look and chuckled. “The security detail had a potluck supper three days ago, part of planning the security.  One of the agents brought potato salad… Half the detail is down with food poisoning.”

Bond couldn’t help it: he laughed; then sobered. “Accidental?”

“Yes. Believe me, it was checked.  However, MI5 was asked to add extra‑“

Bond groaned.

“Precisely.  I want MI6 to have a presence.  You are one of the few agents who can plausibly blend into the crowd.” She made a face. “You will officially be escorting Melinda Smallwood.”

“Is she pretty?”

M’s glare could have cut sheet metal. Bond ducked his head, “I’ll be on DUTY, M.”

“You forget I know you, Bond.” She reached out and tapped his knuckle with her pen. “Hands off, I have to work with her relatives.”

“Right. So what’s the occasion?”

“Movie premier, gala, and a lot of mingling and cocktails.”

“And you expect assassins?”

“No, Bond. Fans.”


	2. Pub crawling is an Olympic sport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: alerts for misogynistic, at least chauvinistic, and generally obnoxious attitudes.  
> this is a LOT of time before the beginning of "smooth criminal", not overly long after Bond was promoted to Double-O

The Lady Smallwood was charming, attractive, and icy‑Bond ITCHED to warm her up. The movie was yet another reboot of the Alan Quatermain franchise, and many of the prior actors to play the role were in attendance, which explained the absolute screaming MOB of fans wherever he turned.

MI5 was incompetent, of course.  Luckily no one actually tried anything, or if they did they were crushed to death by the fan girls before they got close.  Bond was beginning to believe that M had been right about the real danger. Luckily, they didn’t seem to be aimed at the royals. A few of the lesser nobles were apparently the subject of fans of their own, but their security seemed up to it.

The royals left: Bond got a brief glimpse of a conservatively dressed red head with sharp eyes‑and likely a hidden weapon, judging from the way he held his umbrella‑ in the car as they left, but once they were gone his official duties were over.

Except he had to continue to escort Lady Smallwood, who was determined to stay through the cocktail hour to meet the actors.

“{Cold bitch, I’d like to warm that up.}”

Bond’s ears turned to the Scots Gaelic mutter, and grinned. “{I’ve been trying to resist the urge all evening,}” he answered and glanced sideways.

It was Sean Connery, the man who founded the role of Alan Quatermain.  Bond’s eyebrow rose at him. “{Wasn’t aware you still spoke the language,}” he said quietly.

“{Since when do bodyguards speak Scots?}” Connery grinned, and then in English. “You’re working still?”

“Technically not once the royals left, but it would look odd if I left without my date.”

The older man grinned, “Watch and learn, kid.” And he walked away.

Twenty minutes later, Melinda Smallwood was leaving the party with one of the younger actors.

“I’m impressed.” Bond grinned as Connery came back around.

“{So, fancy getting out of here to someplace with real drink and some girls?}”

“{Technically I should report back directly to my boss, but I wouldn’t want her to get used to that.}”

Connery laughed, “{Never let a woman get used to anything‑ keep them on their toes.}”

Bond grinned, “{She’s an old dragon, but I’m fond of her; still, she knew I would hate this job.}”

Bond and Connery started drifting toward the exit.

“{Nice suit.}” Connery nodded at him.

“{Likewise, if a bit conservative for me.}”

“Gieves & Hawkes, of course.” Connery smiled.

“Anderson & Shepherd,” Bond said, tugging slightly at his cuff. “Although there’s a new fellow who looks quite promising.”  Bond cocked his head at the door. “Half of those fans are here for you, you know.”

“Only half?” He raised an eyebrow, and smirked.  Connery turned to one of the service women and smiled, smoothing his accent out into a low growl, “Lass? Could you call my car for me?” He winked at her, “I’ve business to be about and we need to get out quietly.”

She melted and simpered.  Bond proceeded to watch in awe as Connery got half the staff to run interference as they slipped out into a waiting car.

“Damn. I thought I was good at that.”

Connery got a bottle off the floor of the car and took a swig before offering it to Bond. “Acting helps, and besides, half the people out there will pretend you’re the character if you just let them.”

“So they think you’re Alan Quatermain?”

He shrugged, “Or whichever of the movies they like. People build up fantasies; you just let them convince themselves.”

“So where to?”

“D’you play pool?”

“Religiously. Although card games are more my forte.”

“Navy?” Connery grinned.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

Connery told him what ship he’d served on. By the time they got to the pub, they were swapping Navy stories and had finished what was left of the scotch bottle.

*

Connery was a pool shark.

*

Bond got him back at darts.

*

The third pub had a rougher crowd. Bond would normally have been concerned being in here in tailored suits and reeking of money, but Connery was apparently known by the staff.  Bond relaxed a bit when he heard familiar accents.

“{Oh, good to be at home, then,}” Bond slipped back into Gaelic.

The bartender blinked at him and looked at Connery. Connery shrugged, “{He seems alright. Don’t know his politics.}”

The bartender thumbed to a wall full of Scottish National Party flyers and insignia. “{You’ve a problem with that, blondie, you might want to move along.}”

“{As long as you stick with politics and stay away from the Irish methods, I don’t care much.}”

“{Enough politics.}” Connery grinned, “So,” he said switching back to English again, “name your poison.” He waved at the wall of admittedly fine alcohols.

“Redheads,” Bond answered, with a smirk.

“Red? Oh no lad, never, ever, ever, they’re nothing but trouble!” Connery sputtered, and then got a wistful look. “I got punched in the eye over a redhead once.”

Bond grinned, “You asked me for my POISON, not anything safe.” He lowered his voice, “I got stabbed over one once.”

And they were off again, talking about bar fights and girls.  Connery told him about ending up in a fight with a gang in Edinburgh over a jacket.  Bond told him about the time Alec and he had ended up in bed with twins, only to find out their father was an SAS man with a short fuse.

They both had a thing for ballerinas.

*

Bond couldn’t remember how they ended up in the alley, but there were a lot of men down around him, and a girl up against the wall looking stunned… Connery was cheerfully pummeling one of the fellows.  His suit was torn.  Bond looked down‑his had blood on it.  He remembered coming out of a pub, with Sean, and… there was a gang, and they were bothering some girl?

Sean had told them to bugger off? And then there was a fight.  Right.

Connery walked over, and grinned down at the girl. “You alright, then?”

“Yes… Oh my god, you’re Sean Connery!”

“Naw, lass, just his stunt double,” Connery lied without a single tell. Of course Bond being drunk might have dulled his senses a bit. “So, d’ye have a girlfriend?” he thumbed at Bond.

She smiled. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the incident with the gang that Mr. Connery mentioned happened. he took on a very bad bunch of dudes who tried to take his jacket, won, and got a rep in town.  
> Gieves & Hawkes is in fact Mr. Connery's tailor
> 
> Lady Smallwood is a RELATIVE (by marriage)of the Lady Smallwood who will end up overseeing MI^, and hiring Sherlock to find the man blackmailing her husband.


	3. Age and Cunning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of "when Sean Connery met James Bond"  
> Merry Xmas.

Both girls worked as cocktail waitresses.  The first one‑ Betty? ‑had been heading home when the boys started in on her; her friend was named May‑ Bond remembered that because of an assortment of bad jokes in bed. Bond woke up a bit later to find out that Sean was busy making sure May forgot Bond existed.

Bond watched for a while; he had to admit he was impressed. The adages about age and experience suddenly applied to more than just M.

Sean called for his car when he woke up. The girls had gone to work.

“So lad, where can I take you?”

“Technically I shouldn’t even answer that,” Bond laughed.

“I’m a knight of the realm,” Sean said with a smirk, “and if that’s not good enough reason, I think I owe it to you to get you back in one piece, as a fellow Scotsman.”

“As a fellow Scotsman, I’ll accept,” Bond said, giving him the less secure  entry address  for MI6.

Once they were in the car, Bond asked, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask.” Sean sounded amused.

“You’re twice my age: where the HELL do you get the stamina?”

Sean laughed. “Let me tell you three secrets: never drink the water away from home; wash all your fruit and fresh food in liquor; and Scotsmen need oats like horses do.”

Bond grinned, “I’ll start taking mine in a mash with beer, then.”

“Why not? I do. And  a dash of molasses, if I can.” 

Bond had no idea if the man was pulling his leg. “I’m sorry we won’t likely get a chance to meet again, Sean.  It was fun.”

“What? Nonsense.” He handed him a card. “If I’m home, come by.  If you happen to be somewhere I’m filming, we can terrorize my director and run off to the pubs.”

Bond blinked at him. “You’re very generous.”

“No, I’m not: you’re buying.”

Bond laughed, “I’ll expense it.”

Sean slapped him on the back. “See, you’re learning!”

Bond sauntered into MI6, and M’s office, in yesterday’s suit‑the blood came out of the suit with cold water, but not the shirt, sadly.

“Double-O Seven,”  M pronounced it like she was a mother saying his full name with middle name too. “Where the HELL have you been?”  She closed the office, and glared at him.

Old Boothroyd was sitting in too. “Recordings are down, if you feel like scolding the young pup,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hullo, Q. I do apologize if this has interrupted your tea time?” Bond wasn’t suicidal enough to ever piss off Boothroyd; M would kill him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that old Boothroyd would do worse.

“You’ve only been a Double-O for a short while, Bond; I can get you assigned to a desk,” M said through gritted teeth.

Bond stared at her, “What the hell did I DO?”

Boothroyd shot him an affectionate glance. “M here has been concerned: your tracker stopped working.”

“What?  I didn’t lose it.”  Bond pulled the tracker out of his wallet and put it down on the desk.  It smelled, strongly, of alcohol.

“It was never meant to be alcohol-proof, Double-O Seven.” Boothroyd actually sounded amused. “Although perhaps I should work on that. What happened?”

“Err… I think that would be when I had the bottle broken over my head?  Or it might have been when the other fellow passed out and spilled his drink on me…”

“Your hand, Double-O Seven?” Boothroyd was holding out a hand.  Bond held his hand out in confusion.  Bothroyd pulled on his shirt cuff and took out his cuff link. “However did you manage to break this one?”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “A second tracker?”

M glared at him, “We would have had more on you, but it was supposed to be a simple job.  The young Lady Smallwood went home with someone other than YOU, Bond.”

Bond looked wounded at her, “YOU told me hands off.” Then he grinned, “Oh! You thought the fellow in her car was me, so you chased off the wrong way? That’s funny.”

“Where were you, Bond?”

“Off on a pub crawl with a countryman. We had a grand time, although apparently my alcohol tolerance isn’t up to snuff.”

M stared at him. “And the blood?”

“Believe it or not, M, we defended a lady’s virtue.” He grinned at her then, and tried to mimic Sean’s grin, “Well from those fellows anyway, not from us, but she‑and her friend‑ seemed happy to reward our valor.”

M closed her eyes and shook her head; when she opened her eyes again she was back to normal‑ for her. “Get out of my office, Bond.”

Boothroyd stood up. “But do come to mine, Double-O Seven.  I want to find out how to make those trackers a bit sturdier.”

“Yes, Q.”

He followed Boothroyd down to his office, with a slight delay while R talked to him about something.

Boothroyd then spent a great deal of time taking apart both trackers while Bond tried not to fidget.

“Hmm, yes, well.  Interesting to see you Double-Os don’t just break things on duty.”

“Will that be all?” Bond asked him warily.  Boothroyd looked like he should be a kindly grandfather, but his enthusiasm for things exploding made Bond a bit nervous.

“No, Bond, it isn’t.  Also you can’t get out until I unlock the door.”

Bond settled back, grumpily.

Boothroyd walked up, smiling, and said, “Take off the suit and empty your pockets, please?”

“What?” He then reminded himself of his policy about Q‑ after what happened to the last Double-O Seven, with his equipment “malfunctioning”, he’d worried‑ and stripped out of the suit and shirt. “Do I need to get out of anything else?” He aimed for casualness, and was fairly certain he failed.

“No, that’s fine.” Boothroyd proceeded to remove a number of small widgets from his suit and gear. “Do you know,” he said as he extracted a camera from Bond’s tie bar, “you’re the only Double-O that acts nervous around me?”

Bond looked at him thoughtfully. “The prior Double-O Seven’s death was not an accident.”  He wasn’t asking.

“No, it wasn’t.”  Boothroyd smiled, “I do rather like you, dear boy.” Bond startled at being called anything but OO7 or Bond. “Observant people are so rare.” He extracted Connery’s card from the pile and handed it back to him. “Quite the adventure.”

“Do I take it among these cameras and things a few continued to work?”

“Of course, dear boy. Always keep an ace back in case you need it.”

“Yes, Sir,” Bond nodded. “So M always said.”

*

Bond did, in fact, turn out to be one of Boothroyd’s favorite agents, and really… if you just respected the fact that the man could kill everyone in MI6 with a single button push and make it look like an accident, he was a really nice fellow.

*

M eventually found out he’d been with Sean Connery and turned to ice until Boothroyd took him aside and explained.  The pile of autographed Alan Quartermain memorabilia went a long way toward patching that up.

*

Years later‑ after  Vesper; after Alec;  over far too many drinks; on location in  the back corner of nowhere where Sean was filming a movie‑ Bond would thank him for being  one hell of a mentor. Neither of them would mention it again sober.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Xmas, Happy Hannukah, and winter holiday of your choice.  
>  This is my light and cheerful (if not particularly forward thinking etc. i was staying true to character) Bond background fic.  
> I'm afraid the next one is Vesper, and that never goes well.

**Author's Note:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sean_Connery  
> its interesting how much Sean Connery has in common with this Bond: Scots speakers, ladies men, violent, navy, sexist as hell, and completely charming.
> 
> (not a surprise IRL since Bond's background was modified after Sean Connery got the role)
> 
> In the universe where James Bond is a real person, there were obviously no Bond movies. what there was, instead, were Alan Quatermain movies. And instead of pioneering the role of Bond, Sean Connery was the first Alan Quatermain.


End file.
